


Cold Corpses

by orphan_account



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, And some light stuff too, Angst, Character Deaths, Child Abuse, Dark, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supernatural Creatures, Torture, Trauma, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4323978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Barry Henry Allen: former CCPD forensic specialist, vampire hunter as in a vampire who hunts the things that go bump in the night, League of Assassins member—”<br/>“Former League of Assassins member.”<br/>“—and now,” Hartley finished with a smug quirk of his coral pink lips, “babysitter.” Hartley enunciated the word as if it was one great, big joke. If Barry hadn’t learned the importance of self-control, he would have snapped Hartley’s neck. Okay, maybe not. Barry wasn’t that aggressive or violent or, you know, stupid. He needed Hartley to take down Thawne.<br/>___</p><p>Barry's had a lot of crap to deal with in the last few decades: betrayal of vampire master, trying to get revenge on said vampire master, dealing with his insufferable vampire brother, Hartley, (through sire of course; God knows what would happen if they were actually brothers) whilst working with him to solve paranormal mysteries. You think Fate would give him a break ... but no. </p><p>So of course Barry would find a Dhampir in the Bogeyman's liar. Of course there would be something weird going in Central City . And of course this would have something to do with Eobard Thawne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bogeyman

**Author's Note:**

> This is un-beta'd, y'all. Meaning I've made typos and embarrassing mistakes. Feel free to point them out in the comments. Also, feel free to click kudos in appreciation of my work. It goes without saying that what I'm writing is very, VERY alternate universe. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Flash. Nothing. Just writing fanfiction as something to keep me busy.

There were several kinds of monsters in the world. Barry had met many monsters in his life. Working in the CCPPD during the Prohibition, he had seen monsters wield badges of authority and abuse their power; he had seen monsters accumulate fortune through controlling underground liquor, drug and prostitution rings; and met monsters that lurked in the dark, waiting for their prey to come close enough to steal their possessions or relish in the spilling of blood. In the human world, you could encounter nightmares that hid themselves behind masks.

In the supernatural world, well, the monsters were proud of what they were. Think ‘proud’ as Mardi Gras in New Orleans, except not all the LGBT themes and more ‘Oh yes, eating people, casting dark curses, lies and manipulation—all the dark, evil things humans hide! That’s us!’

Barry was what he was: a vampire. A creature that yes, drank blood for food, no, sparkled in sunlight, didn’t have a weakness to wood but fire, holy water and silver could do a nasty number on him, and, oh yeah, he could rip a person’s head off—if he wanted to, which he didn’t. (For several reasons: 1) all the evidence to clean up, 2) the person he would be ripping the head off had a life and possibly a family of his/her own, and 3) He didn’t like killing.)

 Barry didn’t care much for the word ‘monster’. All he thought that the word was used to describe the vilest of beings. There were certain qualifications to be a monster in Barry’s book, like:

  *          Total disregard of life
  *          Always having a nefarious purpose
  *          Complete and utter cruelty
  *          Class A Assholian behaviour (and no, Hartley, he did not care that it wasn’t a real word)



The Babau who was lurking around somewhere in the sewers definitely was. Barry wrinkled his nose at the stink of human waste as well as other questionable smells that the vampire didn’t want to identify flowing past him as he carefully treaded the thin slab of concrete on the side of the tunnel.  

Barry hadn’t foreseen himself hunting the bogeyman in the sewers when he arrived at Central City. He expected to go on a wild goose chase through the city’s underworld to find their elusive vampire sire after a source in New York tipped them off. It was a good thing that they were good at multi-tasking because Barry had heard children disappearing from their beds in mysterious circumstances in his old neighbourhood. He had to do _something._ It was his old neighbourhood after all. Hartley didn’t have to get involved, as he often told his elder sibling—through vampiric sire, of course, not blood—but as always, Hartley said, with his condescending smirk, _“I’ll help. You’ll probably miss something important and need my superior expertise.”_ Or something of the kind. Prick, but Barry had learnt to ignore his brother’s snark.

It was Barry who discovered it was the Babau: a ghoul that hunted misbehaving kids, dragged them to dark underground places and then proceeded to eat them after the ghoul’s own hungry children had lured him to the basement, killed them and then ate him. Or so legend said.

Hartley was the one who found that the Bogeymen in urbanised areas dragged kids to sewers. Plenty of darkness, high in the creepy factor and pretty much summed up the situation at hand: smelled like shit. Since Barry was the one ‘who wanted to find a couple of lost children’, he was the one who had to go down to the smelly sewers and find them. Hartley did care for the missing kids, but the vampire had a hard time expressing emotions other than rage, arrogance or contempt.

Barry paused when he smelled the thick, coppery scent of blood rising above the stench of the sewers. Vampire senses meant superior senses; meaning he could smell certain scents, like blood, and track it down. The supernaturally heightened senses were to assist vampires in hunting since they were natural predators.

 _“Flash,”_ Hartley’s voice came in through the comm link earpiece in Barry’s cowl. The elder vampire with his laptop was comfortably in their shared apartment they had recently bought, playing the role of Barry’s Oracle while the other was playing ‘ _Dora the Explorer’_ in the sewers. _“You’ve been quiet for the last few minutes. If your tracker wasn’t moving, I would have suspected that you were so weak that the Babau had killed you.”_

 _“Piper …”_ Barry muttered and winced at how the loud sound echoed down the sewers. He lowered it to a smaller tone. “I smell blood down here. Enough of it to be noticed.” Barry took a deep whiff of the air, ignored the smell of storm water and human faeces for the metallic tang of blood. “I’m going to follow it. It may lead me to the missing kids.” _‘Or homeless corpses eaten by sewer alligators,’_ Barry didn’t say.

 _“Proceed with caution, Flash,”_ Hartley replied. _‘The Babau is a more dangerous hunter than vampires are. Luckily, you have a lot of experience with this. Play to your strengths, use your disadvantages as advantages—”_ that part was easier said than done “ _—and most importantly, don’t destroy my suit. I put a lot of work into it.”_

“Yes, Mom. I’m going to wander even further into the dark and scary—” a snort from the other end “—sewers. I promise not to talk to any strangers.”

 _“You think you’re so adorable.”_ And then there was the tell-tale ‘ _BZZT_ ’ of Hartley turning off the comm link. Barry heavily sighed and winced when he took in another breath of sewer air. Next time he was making Hartley do this with or without him, regardless if it was his idea in the first place.

He followed the alluring scent of blood through the smelly sewers. Barry figured the only reason he could smell the blood so well was because he hadn’t taken his full daily intake of blood that day. The trail had been scant at first, what with the stench distorting the scent, but as Barry took deeper breaths and followed that coppery tang, the trail got warmer. Metaphorically, of course. The cold of the sewers bit at the exposed lower half of his face.

Barry imagined he was walking through the Underworld. The temperature dropped the deeper he wandered in the sewers and it had become pitch-black that Barry was grateful that vampires had night-vision. He could even hear the scared whimpers of dead souls echoing in the tunnels. Barry halted at that particular thought. _What_?

The blood scent had become more potent, rising above the reek of poop, and far off, Barry could hear soft sobbing and anxious gasps of breath. Barry set off after the source of the noise, at a quicker pace than before. He didn’t want to speed through the sewers because he didn’t want to alert the Babau if it was in the vicinity. Barry walked down a long stretch briskly and turned a corner before he found out why the blood smelled so strong.

There was a change from the usual tunnel scenery where it was replaced by a few grimy pipes and a stone platform raised above it leading somewhere. The rumbling of … _trains_ was mixed with the crying of small children. Barry grimaced when he saw a carcass nearby. He gasped with horror when he realized it was a child. The child was clawed open, insides exposed to reveal several organs missing inside. The face was—Barry let out a heavy breath. He could barely make out the face. Barry wouldn’t have identified the child was a girl if it wasn’t the pink bow lying by the head and the pink pyjamas. The vampire felt bile rising up from his throat and quickly swallowed it down with a twisted expression. Barry would have thrown up if he hadn’t seen a million corpses before. However, the amount of brutality done to the body had endured nearly made him do so.

Barry forced his eyes off the corpse, telling himself there was nothing he could do now, and saw a small child—a boy, shirtless—tied around a large, thick pipe, his skin nearly covered in deep red blood.

Barry instinctively whizzed towards the boy. The blood had congealed on his worryingly pale, near translucent skin, his hair was wet and matted and—was that _barbwire_ around the child’s wrists, securing him to the pipe? Barry kneeled before the boy. It was. There were strategic cuts around the boy’s body, deep enough and wide enough to make the boy bleed out and die slowly. But Barry could hear a faint heartbeat in the fragile cage of the boy’s chest, and if this was the Babau, wouldn’t the creature simply eaten the boy?

The boy lifted his head up weakly, eyes slitting open. There was a ring of scarlet around the boy’s pupils and when the boy opened his dry lips, his canines were extended to make small fangs.

 _‘Oh,’_ Barry thought. _‘The boy’s a Dhampir.’_ A half-vampire: a rarity and, in the view of some traditionalistic vampires, a curse.

“W-Who—” Clearly it was an effort for the boy to speak, seeing as it was a strain to speak consciously.

“ _Shh_ … It’s okay now.” Barry hushed him in the most soothing voice he could muster in his panicked state, wanting the boy to save his strength. It was only his half-vampiric nature that had the Dhampir hanging on for so long and every ounce of energy the boy had was a precious commodity. Barry tenderly grabbed one of the Dhampir’s wrist and vibrated it as gently as he could out of the barbwire’s hold. He did the same thing to the other wrist. The Dhampir whimpered as he fell forwards. Barry caught him in time and set the Dhampir down softly on the ground against the pipe.

The boy heaved out a ragged breath, and tilted his head to the side, gaze on the iron grating a few feet away from them. Barry thought the boy was merely tired until he noticed the sharpness of his scarlet eyes, despite his weary state. Barry turned his head in that direction.

When he approached the bloody boy by him, the whimpering had ceased and turned into fearful silence. Well, near-silence. Barry heard racing heartbeats and heavy breathing. The other missing children. Casting one last glance to the boy and a gesture for him to stay put, Barry scurried over to the grating, crouching down beside it.

One, two, three, four—the number went up to nine children were trapped underneath the bars in a cramped squarish space. It was a mixture of boys and girls, all of them in their pyjamas, dirty and foul now, their skin covered in grime, and all of them purposefully kept their heads down and curled into themselves in an attempt to make themselves appear small. The smell of fear oozed off of them.

 _‘Jesus,’_ he thought. _‘These kids are going to need years of therapy.’_

Barry turned on his comm. “Piper,” he whispered.

_“Yes?”_

“I’ve found the children,” Barry informed him. “Ten are alive. One’s a Dhampir. And—I was too late for one.”

Critical silence came from the other end and then Hartley finally spoke: _“I’ll alert the police to your location. Keep an eye out for the Babau. It may still be in the area. BZZT!”_

“Hey—” A girl lifted her head up, looking up to Barry. It was dark enough that she couldn’t see Barry’s face but she was conscious enough to make out the human quality of his voice. The other children were rousing as well, lifting their heads up in hope.

 _“Shhh …”_ Barry tried to quiet them. The children continued to speak, voices were raspy and weak.

An animalistic growl reverberated through the air and then Barry was being grabbed from behind, claws sinking through his skin, and thrown across the space until he hit a wall. He fell on the ground roughly with a grunt. Barry was so grateful that vampire bones were hard to break. He quickly clambered into a defensive position, poised to strike.

Seeing the Babau, Barry was reminded of a scarecrow. A flour sack was thrown over the Babau’s face, predatory eyes filled with crimson, a crescent shaped moon on the lower half of its face and shark-like rows of teeth in between its lips. Its arms and chest were bare, the skin shaded a raven black, and the Babau had nails extended like the claws of Freddy. Luckily, the Babau was wearing shredded pants to cover his decency. Barry didn’t think he was in the mood to fight a naked monster.

 _“They’re,”_ the Babau rumbled, _“my naughty children to punish … No soft-hearted saint to going to save them from punishment.”_

“Me? A saint?” Barry mocked him. “If only you knew …”

The Babau tilted its head, narrowing its eyes as if Barry was an amusing pet. The Dhampir coughed, a sickly rasp, and lifted his head to glare at the Babau. Or at least tried to. The Dhampir’s lips turned downwards and he regarded the Babau with distaste.

 _“Naughty little boy, breaking out of your bonds,”_ the Babau chided the Dhampir. _“Looks like I’ll have to slit your skinny little throat this time.”_

“Not gonna’ happen!” Barry rocketed forwards, launching himself off the ground and lifting his feet up in a dropkick. Barry would planted his boots in the Babau’s face if not for the icy fingers that snaked around his ankle and flung him to the floor. Barry reflexively threw his arms in front of his face before making impact. Barry had enough experienced being thrown that when he touched the ground, he flipped into a crouch.

Barry had to lure the Babau away from the children, particularly the Dhampir considering his treatment, and continue to do so until the cops came while not being sliced to pieces himself. Maybe he could …

The Babau lunged at him like a feral cat, its Cheshire Cat smile now wide open to reveal row upon row of shark teeth, and Barry nearly didn’t react in time to lift up his legs and kick the monster over him. It landed a few feet away and before it did, Barry speeded over to the Dhampir. He gingerly picked up the child, one arm at his back and the other under his knee. “Sorry, about this, kiddo,” he whispered to the Dhampir, who had lazily leaned his head on Barry’s chest, and yelled out to the Babau, “Hey, don’t you want your kid?!” He took one cautious step back. Babau lived to punish and eat naughty children, and what he put the Dhampir through, the creature wouldn’t be happy with Barry being a ‘saint’.

The Babau frowned, resembling a horrific frowny-face emoji, and snapped its teeth in anger.

“What’s the matter? Is the Big Bad Babau angry with me?” Barry asked mischievously while apologising profusely to the Dhampir in his arms in his head. He jostled the child, who grunted, to further taunt the Babau. When Barry put another foot behind him, the Babau took a dangerous step towards them. “The boy is innocent; I’m sure he hasn’t done anything that bad to deserve this.”

 _“That’s a—”_ You know, Barry had been doing this for, like, _decades_. Taunting monsters, getting tortured by them and, of course, being chased by them. So Barry knew the exact moment when the Babau would start to rush straight at him and the Dhampir. The Babau’s muscles tensed. Barry turned on his heel and tightened his hold around the Dhampir.  It raised its arms out and screamed out, _“LIE!”_

Being chased was nothing new to Barry. All his life he was either running to or from something. Usually, that ‘something’ was nothing good. Barry used a fifth of his speed as he navigated his way through the tunnels. Barry didn’t need to glance back to see if the Babau was following him. It yelled as it pursued Barry. The Babau was surprisingly fast, its feet treading on the sewage water just as Barry’s did.

 _“You and the Dhampir are filthy—filthy—FILTHY!”_ The Babau snapped its jaws and swiped at Barry. Claws grazed Barry’s back, forcing Barry to wince and increase his speed. The Babau kept up with him, continuing to spew out vile words. _“This world can’t afford any more sinners. It’s rotten enough as it is. We need to snuff it out just as it starts!_ ”

The Dhampir kept a tight hold on the front of Barry’s suit, nails extending into claws and his small head tucked into the crook of the vampire’s neck. Barry rose his left hand to the comm link, also making his head bend down a bit to reach his fingers and activated it.

 _“_ Piper, the Babau and I are on the move,” Barry said.

 _“—Children are nothing but parasites!_ ” The Babau was hissing behind Barry. _“They’ll keep on doing bad things as long as you let them—”_

 _“Well, that much is obvious,”_ Hartley spat out at him. Barry heard rustling, a laptop closing and a long intake of breath. _“Lead the Babau to the abandoned warehouse near our apartment. I’ll be there shortly. Make sure to keep it on your trail.”_

_“—Dhampirs are much worse! They are half-monsters! They take blood of innocents and wear the skin of both the wolf and the lamb—”_

_“The police are fifteen minutes away from your previous location,”_ Hartley continued. Barry imagined the elder vampire pursing his lips in moue at the Babau’s words. _“Do try to keep yourself and the Dhampir alive.”_

“Aw, is that concern I hear?” Barry mocked him. His reply was the comm cutting off.

 _“—But vampires are the worst! Wearing the bodies of dead people, taking blood like mosquitoes, pretending to be something they aren’t!”_ Barry would admit the words had stung him more than expected, but Barry had made his peace with what he was a long time ago. Barry caught sight of metal rungs poking out at the end of the tunnel and lifted a foot, leaving one left down to glide over the water. He zoomed up the ladder, vibrated through the manhole cover and spilled into an abandoned alley.

The Babau said the most rotten things as it followed Barry. The Dhampir’s claws were making a dent in Barry’s suit and he managed to wriggle himself into a more secure position around Barry’s body, a skinny arm thrown over his shoulder. Judging from the amount of neon lights advertising backdoor restaurants, Barry would guess he was in the Ten-Stew (full name: Tenneson-Venestew), one of Central City’s more notorious neighbourhoods. The warehouse located about eleven miles from where Barry currently was.

The Babau was driven in his chase to kill both the Dhampir and him. He must have seen the Dhampir as the worst kind of sinner; that troublesome kid you hope you wouldn’t get in your class and wwould tell your children to keep stay away from. The child’s half-vampiric nature must have singled him to the Babau for it to be so cruel to the Dhampir.

Barry reached the warehouse, not bothering to open the doors and just vibrating through them. The Babau behind him burst through the door, creating a Babau-shaped hole just where the doors were fitted next to each other. Barry was reluctantly amazed; it had some major speed and endurance if it could keep up with Barry.

Barry deposited the Dhampir nearby, by some crates and a ragged thick cloth that he used as a pseudo-blanket for the child, and turned back in time to tackle the Babau. Barry managed to knock it to the dusty ground, thanks to force and momentum, however the creature had the upper hand in strength. He rolled Barry over, pinning the vampire to the ground with its legs on Barry’s arms, and raised its claw to strike. Barry stretched his head to the side, narrowly avoiding the claws from, for lack of better words, _clawing_ his face.

 _“You are worse than the half-breed. Evil bred from day one,”_ the Babau was saying. _“I can see it like stains on a white sheet. You were made to breed chaos, to kill and destroy. Your fate is etched in stone!”_

 _“And yours ends in ungodly fire!”_ A voice called out. And Barry heard the most beautiful sound he ever heard: the light opening note of a flute. It was followed by several more succinct notes, the tune increasing in tempo and becoming more and more benevolent. Hartley was the most talented musician Barry ever met.

And that was where his brother’s powers lied: his music.

It wasn’t often that vampires would be given powers, but given who their former master was, of course Barry and Hartley would gain special abilities. Barry was much faster than a normal vampire; he could run at the speed of sound. Hartley’s hypnotising gifts were the best in the world … arguably. Hartley was capable of hypnotising people and, if he concentrated hard enough, _monsters_. The Babau screeched, tumbling off of Barry. Its hands went up to the side of the sack as if it could block out the sound of Hartley’s flute. It couldn’t block out the sound. Arms free, Barry pushed the Babau off of him. He scrambled back and shakily stood up.

The Babau writhed on the ground in pain. A long time ago, when he was human, Barry would have flinched back and retreat to safety. Now? After all that he had been through, Barry only held his ground.

“ _’Ungodly fire?’_ ” Barry murmured, raising an eyebrow beneath his cowl to the source of the music on the other end of the warehouse. The sound changed sharply, resembling a heavenly hymn; Hartley’s way of saying ‘Shut up and get to work’.  

It had taken both of him and Hartley years of training to perfect this technique: to be able exorcise demons from the present plane of existence. Vampires shouldn’t be able to do that in the first place. The First Vampire was a son of Lilith, vampires were associated with darkness and demons, and most importantly, holy power was a sure-fire to kill vampires. It didn’t mean that there were ways around it.

Hartley and Barry’s vampiric sire, Eobard Thawne, was connected to an energy field known as the Speed Force. Barry wasn’t sure how the vampire managed to procure something as powerful and electrical as the Speed Force without being burnt to a crisp. Hartley hypothesised that Eobard had access to the Speed Force before he became a vampire. When Barry had been turned into a vampire, he had inherited a strong connection to the Speed Force. Hartley’s inherited connection from Eobard to the Speed Force was not as strong, obviously lacking in super-speed. The Speed Force protected the two vampires from being burnt to death when performing holy rituals because of the hyper-dimensional electricity they carried within themselves.

Hartley learnt from monks in Japan how to use his weak connection to the Speed Force to remove demons from this world utilising his flute. The oriental tune of the flute had a steady feel to it, building up speed and volume to lead to an explosive end. Barry could feel the energy in the air becoming charged with the Speed Force. Hartley was bringing the storm and Barry was going to bring down the lightning. Barry began to run in circles around the Babau, directing the charged particles to flow with him. Electricity crackled around Barry, lighting the seams of his suit. The Babau screamed out in agony. Luckily, its suffering was going to end soon.  

Barry’s furious speed and the ethereal sound of Hartley’s flute worked hand-in-hand to vanquish the Babau. The pressure was building inside the vortex and when Hartley delivered the final note, it boiled over, engulfing the Babau in a swift fulgurating fire. The Babau gave out one last cry and— _fell limply to the ground_.

Barry skidded to a stop. That was strange. Hartley had stepped out of the shadows into dim light, dressed in his dark hood and civilian clothing underneath, studying the charred body of the Babau on the ground. That was new.

Usually, the monster would be— _KRA-KOOM!_ Gone! Leaving nothing behind but a scorch mark on the ground. Normally, there wasn’t a body left over. The bare chest of the Babau rose up and down heavily. Barry could hear a weak heartbeat in the Babau’s chest. Over the fiery after-scent of the exorcising ritual, Barry could smell—

“I smell human,” Hartley stated, nonplussed. “Either that’s the Dhampir you hide somewhere in the warehouse or—” Barry warily knelt down to the Babau, becoming more acquainted with the smell of burnt flesh and removed the sack from its head to reveal a remarkably darkened human face underneath. “—it’sthe Babau.”

“The Babau’s … _human_?” Barry felt his face twist in confusion.

The Babau’s face was free of hair, its— _his?_ —skin actually a chocolate brown, dark eyes open and plump lips open. Barry sent a perplexed look to Hartley, who scrutinized the human. Nothing in their research said anything about this.

“Thank— _hah_ —God,” the Babau rasped out in a human voice. Barry froze in shock. The Babau’s wild eyes were fixed on Barry like he was angel descended from Heaven. “I-I thought that n-nightmare would n-never en—”  The Babau—human, Barr was now sure _he_ was a human—couched out violently, blood spurting from his lips.

The human’s heartbeat was getting weaker. If Barry didn’t do anything, the human would die. “I’m going to need you to keep it together,” Barry told him. “I need to take you to a hospit—”

 _“No,”_ the human interrupted him. The blood trickled from his lips to the dip of his throat and down to the ground. “Don’t. It’s b-better this way. J-Justice.” Hartley gave out a mirthless snort at that. Barry threw a scalding glare at the elder vampire. The human lifted his hand, trembling as he did, and who was Barry to deny a dying man? The vampire wrapped his fingers around the human’s hand gently, trying hard to contain the thickness of his throat.

Death was nothing new to Barry. It had returned time and time again to steal the people he cared about. His mom, dad, several of his past lovers, treasured friends … Death had taken them all. Death was something he was never going to greet with open arms. Ever.

The person lying by him was not a monster. Not when Barry could see the remorse and guilt so clearly on the human’s face. “I h-hurt those child-ren.” Another bloody cough. Barry watched the red liquid flow on the curve of the man’s chin to the floor. The fire had done a number to the human. “It wa-as l-like I w-watching a m-movie. I c-couldn’t d-do a-a-anything.” A rivulet of water leaked out of the side of the human’s eye. “I tr-tried, b-but I couldn’t.” The human gasped and clenched his eyes painfully.

“What happened to you?” Barry asked, trying hard to keep his voice steady. He wasn’t Hartley who could be so calm and collected. He glanced to Hartley. The elder vampire watched them, face glassy.

“A m-man. C-came outta n-nowhere. C-Called h-himself Z-Zoom.” Barry’s grip on the human tightened unintentionally. Barry had heard that name before. _Eobard_ used that name from time to time. “T-Threw this w-weird mist a-at me. N-Next night, w-when the ‘plosion h-happened, it-it ch-changed me. T-Turned me into a-a m-monster.”

“What do you mean ‘ _explosion’_?” Hartley hissed, edge on the verge of fury. He held himself because of the state of the man, Barry guessed. His brother was a bastard, most of the time, but there were times that Hartley was compassionate. The human’s heartbeat was fading. He was slipping.

“T-Thank you,” the human whispered. “T— _choke_!” His pupils rolled upwards into his eye socket and just like that, he was gone. Barry released his limp hands and stared at the human.

He didn’t choose this. He got turned into a monster and did some horrible things due to his nature. The human suffered until the moment he died. It was a story that resonated deep within Barry. He hadn’t been asked to be a vampire. Eobard had come to him when he had been bleeding out on the street after being shot by a gangster, whispered soothing words to him and brought a painful bite to his neck that filled him with bliss.

Eobard Thawne. _Zoom_. The man who had ruined his life.

“Barry.” Hartley called out. When Barry didn’t reply, he snapped out, _“Barry!”_

Barry dragged his eyes from the body to Hartley begrudgingly. “Y-Yeah?”

Hartley sighed, crossed over to Barry and helped him up from the floor. Hartley had a hand on one of his upper arm. “You’re vibrating.” Was he? He was. Speedsters didn’t shake when shocked; they _vibrated_. “He’s dead now. Nothing you can do about that now.”

“We—We should find out who he is,” Barry stammered out softly and squeezed his eyes, taking in a deep whiff of burnt flesh. They didn’t know the Babau was human. The Babau was supposed to be the manifestation of the fears of children. If they did, he and Hartley would have dealt with the problem another way.

Hartley nodded. “You’re right,” he said, crouching down to the Babau. He produced a small metal capsule that was the length of his thumb and a pocket knife from his belt. The pocket knife was for protection, of course. Although Hartley was no fool, he was going to hurt himself with the blade. If he really wanted to hurt somebody, he should have gone for a full tang knife with a high hilt. Barry grimaced at the thought. Even decades afterwards, he never forgot his training in Nanda Parbat. “Perhaps his blood can reveal what happened to him.” Hartley sliced a small slit on the man’s wrist and placed the capsule at the bottom of the cut, collecting the blood that flowed into it in the aluminium.

“I meant to give him a proper burial,” Barry clarified.

Hartley locked the cap on the capsule and when he gazed up to Barry, there was a rueful quirk of his lips and a fond light twinkling in those golden brown irises of his. “You’re the worst vampire in the world, you know that, right?”

“You must have said that to me a million times before in the past,” Barry murmured, hugging his arms. Hartley had often repeated the phrase. In Hartley’s view, vampires were like marble statues—cold and emotionless.

“It bears repeating.” Hartley stood up and deposited the capsule in his pant pocket. Barry sent one last glance to the dead body. His gut twisted in a messy mix of emotions: guilt at killing somebody _again_ , grief at the tragedy of it all, disgust at the smell hanging in the air … A shuddering exhale of breath and a choked sob drew Barry away from his daze and made him turn his head to where a blood-covered child laid on the ground. 

The Dhampir had somehow crawled from the hiding place Barry had dumped him in the warehouse and made it to the clearing in the middle of the structure. His eyes, crimson and heated, were on the human—formerly the Babau—and he was biting down on his lips to hold his sobs.

“I presume that’s the Dhampir?” Hartley said, coolly.

“Ye—” Barry speeded over to the Dhampir who was still staring at the human. Laboured breaths left the half-vampire’s lips. There was a lot of blood. It was clear that the Dhampir needed blood. Lots of it and immediately. He’d have to call Iris. “—ah,” he finished. “You alright there, kiddo?” The Dhampir’s eyes drifted to him.

“N-No,” he rasped out.

“You’re okay,” Barry assured the child softly. “The bogeyman’s gone now. He’s not coming back.” A pause. “I’m going to look after you.”

“What?!” Hartley snapped, confused.

“I’m going to roll you over and take you back to my apartment,” Barry went down. “Is that okay with you?”

The Dhampir nodded and allowed to turn his blood-crusted body to his back. Barry slipped an arm around his back and under his knees and lifted him up. Barry noticed how worryingly light the Dhampir was in his arms.

“This is a terrible idea.” Yes, Hartley, Barry taking care of a wounded Dhampir in need of blood and dealing with his insufferable brother at the same time; _this_ was a _terrible_ idea. No, he did not need the ‘this is a terrible idea and you are an idiot for doing it’ expression from Hartley right now.

“I know. Look, just call the police and I’ll get the, um—” Barry sent a questioning look to the Dhampir curled against him.

“Michael,” the Dhampir—Michael—rasped. “Michael Snart.”

Nice name. Kind of ironic for a Dhampir to have God’s favourite angel as his name. “I’ll take Michael here back to the apartment and fix him up. No harm.”

Hartley fixed Barry with a scowl. “I still say it’s a terrible idea. You’re not exactly one to properly deal with children.”

“You’re the guy in a scary black hood,” Barry retorted. “People think you’re a freaking kidnapper or something from that get-up.”

“You’re the guy head-to-toe in leather. People think you either work as a cosplayer with no life or in a BDSM club.”

One day, Barry was going to burn Hartley alive and he was going to laugh like the Goddamned Joker when he did it. Hartley pushed his buttons because he _could_ and he _liked_ doing it. Something, Barry thought with a hint of amusement, that all big brothers did. Barry huffed; a gesture of his defeat in his daily battle of wits with his brother. “You know, this conversation is pointless. Michael needs treatment.” Barry headed towards the door, readjusting the bridal position he had Michael in so he could hold him better.

“Wait,” Hartley called out after him. “Aren’t you taking me home?”

Barry looked over his shoulder and sent a smug smirk to his beloved brother. “Nope.” Barry was an unbearable winner and an even worse loser. “Have fun walking, big bro.”

“Barry.” Hartley snarled. “Do—”

Barry left before Hartley could finish that sentence. As Barry ran through the streets, past the early morning cars, to the artsy district where he and Hartley’s apartment building was in, up the fire escape and vibrating through the window, the vampire only had one word repeating itself in his mind— _Zoom._

Barry headed to the bathroom, depositing Michael in the porcelain tub and twisting the hot and cold taps on the side of the wall to manipulate the temperature of the water to lukewarm. Michael seemed to be dozing off now, eyes blinking in fatigue. Barry removed the boy’s grimy and crusty pants to make cleaning easier.

Zoom. _Eobard_. Barry roughly pulled off his cowl and huffed out. The water rose to Michael’s waist. Eobard was in Central City. There was still the huge chance that he had skipped town, but for the first time in decades he and Hartley _finally_ had a solid lead. Barry cupped his hands in the tub and brought the water to his face.

First things first, what was he going to do with the Dhampir he brought home?


	2. Hauntings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the vampires and their new Dhampir charge are 'safe' in an apartment, there are still night terrors haunting them.

To be honest, Barry had no idea what to do with children. Another reason why looking after the Dhampir was a bad idea. Barry could talk your head off with the latest science breakthroughs and how it helped society, but when it came to children, Barry was rendered speechless.

The most experience he had with children was when he was a child himself. Barry was born in 1900 on October 31st in Central City. Barry’s family wasn’t poor; his father was a doctor and his mother was an educated woman. It was only after that his mother had been murdered and his father left to take the fall that Barry had been placed in an orphanage—The Saint Maria’s Home for Children, if he remembered correctly. The other children were hardened and tough from their litany of abandonment and trust issues, the strict, harsh treatment of the overly-religious nuns. Being smart as well being born on Halloween and the son of an unfairly accused murderer hadn’t made him a popular kid in St. Maria’s. It painted a bright red target on his back instead. Barry hadn’t made any friends and, if anything, he avoided people completely. As he got older and older, Barry’s interaction with children became more scarce and sporadic.  

Michael slept soundly in Barry’s bed, body free of blood and wounds treated. His dark hair stood out on Barry’s all white bed sheets and pillow cases which almost swallowed him up. Barry wondered if Michael was comfortable in the spare sweatshirt he had given him.

The vampie watched the boy from the open doorway leading to his bedroom, arms crossed and frowning. Michael was going to have nightmares later, Barry was sure. Probably for years. Nobody came out of an ordeal like that without scars. Barry still had grime on his suit and skin as well the smell of the sewers clinging to him. His wounds were healing, the scratches he received from the Babau fading into closed cuts to scars and then finally nothing.

“Barry Henry Allen: former CCPD forensic specialist, vampire hunter as in a vampire who hunts the things that go bump in the night, League of Assassins member—”

“ _Former_ League of Assassins member.”

“—and now,” Hartley finished with a smug quirk of his coral pink lips, “babysitter.” Hartley enunciated the word as if it was one great, big joke. If Barry hadn’t learned the importance of self-control, he would have snapped Hartley’s neck. Okay, maybe not. Barry was not that aggressive or violent or, you know, stupid. He needed Hartley to take down Thawne.

Barry pushed himself off the doorframe and softly shut the door. He faced Hartley with a flat, unamused expression. Hartley returned the gaze with a stare of his own resembling the benevolent glare of an Athena statue Barry saw in Greece a few years ago.

“Hartley,” Barry began, “do you want the boy in a hospital where’s he likely to attack a nurse with all the blood he’s lost?”

“Of course not,” Hartley snorted back. “ _Bartholomew_ , however arrogant and cold I may be, I am not that unkind as to cast off a Dhampir, a child no less, to a dangerous environment.”

Barry sighed, his tense expression sliding to one of exhaustion and ran his fingers through his messy dark hair. “Good,” he huffed. “I was really hoping you weren’t that much of a dick.”

Can you blame Barry for thinking so?  He had seen Hartley spit on puppies. _Puppies_. Okay, they were evil puppies affected by black matter that had escaped Hell and were eating people but _still_. And that time when Hartley with Robin … To be fair to his brother, it was an _accident_. Hartley had planted bombs around a warehouse in Gotham which was really a mystical drug factory and Robin, in an act of defiance against his mentor, had wandered into the facility five seconds before the place was set to blow. Thank God Barry was there to flash Robin out of there before the explosion happened. Batman, of course, was furious with them. Pissing off one of the oldest and most vampires in the world was so not on Barry’s bucket list.

“Although, I should have known about you not being against Dhampirs,” Barry added.

“That’d be hypocritical of me, Barry.” Oh yeah, right. Barry forgot about the fact that Hartley was a gay vampire who had suffered a massive amount of homophobia in his immortal life. Gays had been unfairly stereotyped through the decades: deviants, paedophiles, Satanists, touched by the devil, mentally unsound—the list went on and on. And all of it was because of a few words from an ancient scripture.

Dhampirs were the homosexuals and black people of the vampire race. They had inherited the grace, hunting prowess and healing factor of their vampire parent, and their human half had gifted Dhampirs with the ability to walk out into daylight and not be burnt to a crisp as well as better self-control over their lust for blood. But most Dhampirs became vampire hunters—and _holy crap_ , they made mighty fine hunters. Dhampirs had been cursed and cast off by vampires because of this, seeing them as a threat to the well-being and longevity of the vampiric race. If Barry had been a more traditionalistic vampire, he would have killed Michael.

Nobody ever said that vampires were kind.

“I’m more concerned about us being what the Dhampir needs,” Hartley clarified, crossing over to the kitchen. He removed his cloak and placed it on a stool and set to work on making hot chocolate. He looked over his shoulder to Barry. “I mean, a vampire that used to work for the Heir of the Demon with super speed and another one that can hypnotise whatever he wants and is morally ambiguous, both with their breath-taking amount of issues, aren’t exactly the best baby-sitters.”

You know, Barry was a speedster and he could talk at the sound of light, but he can never do it with the snarky calm Hartley pulled off his over-twenty word one-liners. Hartley had a fair point though.

“Um, just don’t do anything that classifies as psychotic, harmful or dangerous around Michael,” Barry told him. “Kids need support and security after a traumatic event.”

“And here I thought you lacked experience in the child-caring department.”

“I needed it after my mom died, Hart.” _‘And I didn’t get it,’_ Barry thought sombrely. It was his mother’s birthday when she died. Barry was running home from school, giddy with excitement. He and his dad were going to surprise her with that nice watch she had been eying in the jeweller’s display window. When Barry got home, there was a hurricane of electricity sweeping through his living room. And his mother was right in the eye of it. His father was there, holding Barry back as the boy tried to reach her. The moment Nora’s neck snapped like lightning: quick, sudden and unexpected.

After that it was a blur of events: his father being framed and being sentenced to life in jail despite Barry’s claims that his father was an innocent man, being dropped into an unforgiving foster system and everybody treating Barry as the black sheep.

Hartley softened somewhat at that. “I forget. You can unfortunately relate to the Dhampir’s situation.” And then he muttered, “And we all know why that is so.”

The name ‘Eobard Thawne’, despite not being spoken, weighed heavily upon Barry and Hartley. Eobard killed his mother and ruined his life. Eobard had stabbed Hartley so deep in the back that there was no recovering from it. Time may heal wounds but it could never make the scars fade away.

Barry took a deep breath, in and out. When Hartley said they had a ‘breath-taking amount of issues’, he was making an understatement. Barry picked the note pad on the counter and the pen next to it.

“What are you doing?” Hartley questioned, frowning as he dropped two teaspoons of cocoa powder in his favourite black mug.

“Making a to-do list. _Duh_.”

 “Don’t talk to me like an idiot,” he snapped.  

“Then you should really take your own goddamn advice.” To be even more annoying, Barry drew a large square on the side of paper and wrote down _‘Hartley’s to-do list. 1) don’t talk to people like idiots. 2) make me some hot chocolate. :3’_ He scrawled out the following points on the free space provided. “Okay, so, dot point one: get fresh blood, spare clothes for Michael _._ Dot point two: Find Michael’s parents—”

“What makes you think that Michael has parents?” Hartley interrupted him. “Dhampirs are known to have unstable family units.” A sad but true fact. It was a rarity that the vampire parent would stay with the human parent to raise their offspring.

“I’m being optimistic. Quit raining on my parade.”

Hartley rolled his eyes. “Anything else?”

“Yup!” Barry popped the ‘p’. Barry went on: “Dot point three: analyse Babau-slash-human blood sample. Dot point four: investigate explosions of a supernatural nature. And finally dot point five: Find out what Zoom is doing in Central City.”

“You’re missing one vital point,” Hartley pointed out.

Barry looked up from the notepad to Hartley curiously. “What?”

“Dot point _six_ ,” Hartley hissed, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk, “We find Zoom and we make him _pay_ for what he did to us.”

 

* * *

 

 

The thought of looking after a child terrified Hartley. Child-devouring boogeymen, homicidal ghosts, a lust for blood that both he and his brother struggled to keep under control; that he could deal with. But a child? Oh come on, he and Barry were not qualified to look after a child, a Dhampir no less. Hartley was a crazy son of a bitch. Barry was worse.

Barry had taken a long, hot shower, managing to get most of the sewer stench off of him. There were wisps of stormwater and piss clinging to him, although. When Barry exited the bathroom, dressed in a red hoodie, black skinny jeans and sneakers, he said _‘Hart, I’m leaving for thirty minutes. Don’t burn down the apartment or scare Michael.’_ Hartley flipped him off grumpily.

It was easier for Hartley to be rude and arrogant to people than it was to show actual affection. Barry understood that. Of course he did. Barry had his back no matter what. _But_ as much as Hartley loved Barry, the vampire found it hard to trust him absolutely. The people he trusted, whom he allowed to be close to his heart, had abandoned him time and time again. His parents, Earl, _Eobard …_ Hartley dragged himself out of his reverie. There was no point brooding about it.

The apartment was silent, save for the steady heartbeat of the Dhampir. _Michael_. What should he do? First of all, he should get changed. Hartley removed the cloak around his shoulders, depositing it in the suitcase he kept at the foot of the bed holding the rest of his Pied Piper gear. He took the vial of blood from his pant pocket and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

The human at the warehouse said that Zoom had done to him. Zoom was what Eobard was widely known as in the vampire community. Formidable vampires earned titles with age and power, like the Bat or the Demon’s Head. Eobard was known as Zoom, due to his speed and quick intellect.

If Zoom was here, why would he turn a human into a monster? Hartley’s first thought was Barry. You couldn’t blame him. Eobard and Barry circled each other like planets. In fact, much of Barry’s life had controlled by Eobard; his mother’s murder, planning each step of his life in order to manipulate Barry to whims and play him as if he were a puppet. Their lives revolved around each other. Zoom was fixated on Barry and the other was the same. And where was Hartley? Right in the middle of their feud, although he leaned towards Barry’s side.

Barry suffered just as much as he did and never, not _once_ , did he lie to Hartley. He was the one who got Hartley out of that hellhole Eobard put him in. Hartley didn’t want to think about why Barry rescued him. Either he was a tool to get revenge against Eobard or Barry genuinely cared about him as a brother should. They were both likely options.

Hartley sighed, clutched the vial tightly in his hand and felt hungry and tired. It wasn’t a nice feeling. Fatigue was settling as the sun was coming to rise and the adrenaline he had from the exorcism he had done earlier leaving his system. His throat was achingly dry; his body’s way of telling to go drink some blood. He left his flute in the case and the vial in the case before padding out of his bedroom to the kitchen.

Iris had stopped by earlier that day—actually, yesterday, seeing as how it was past midnight—to donate a pint of blood. Donating blood was more lucrative than working on a porno. Not that Hartley knew how much a porn star made. Hartley had to resist groaning at the sunny way Barry grinned at her when the dark-skinned beauty showed up at the doorstep. But that didn’t stop him from singing quietly, _“OMG. Look at her face. She looks like your next mistake.”_ Thanks to Barry’s enhanced hearing, the vampire turned to throw a scowl Hartley’s way.

Hartley grabbed a bag of blood out of the fridge—it should have been nicely cooled by now—and poured a small percentage of the liquid in a glass. Drinking out of the bag was like drinking juice out of the bottle for him. Hartley downed the contents slowly, savouring the spicy tang of the blood.

Iris tasted better than the average human. She took good care of her body, watched what she ate and did the right amount of exercise to make her blood the best quality it could be. What truly brought out the flavour of her blood was her own personality—fiery, fierce, determined … It was understandable why Barry had a crush on her. Hartley’s appetite dissipated at that thought. Luckily, he had just finished his glass.

A _whoosh_ of air pronounced itself in the apartment and Barry was back, holding shopping bags in his hands and singing in a way so peppy it was too early for it. _“—knew you were trouble when you walked in. So shame on me! Ye-eah! Blow me two places I never be-een! Now I’m on the cold hard ground!”_ He knew letting Barry getting hooked on Taylor Swift was a bad idea. Now look. He had all her albums and knew all of her songs by heart. Barry dumped the bags on the couch and flipped acrobatically over the back of it towards Hartley. _“Oooh!”_  Barry pointed right at Hartley.“ _Noo!”_

“Is this payback for that snide little joke I made earlier or are you really that annoying?” Hartley questioned.

Barry shrugged nonchalantly. “Both.”

Hartley cast his gaze over to the bags on the couch. “Where did you manage to find clothes at this hour?” It only had to be—Hartley glanced at the digital clock— _four-thirty-five AM_. What was Hartley still doing up?

“Oh, I, um, dropped into a store.”

Hartley couldn’t help smirking. It was amazing how quickly Barry could cheer him up from his maudlin moods. “By ‘dropped into a store’, do you mean vibrated through the walls of a store, took a bunch of clothing that looked the Dhampir’s size and ran out of there?”

“I left money on the counter. It’s not stealing if I paid for it.”

“Did you bring food?”

“Well, I figured a growing boy needed fruits and vegetables.” What, no chocolate? Barry must have noticed Hartley jutting his bottom lip out and added, “And the occasional treat, of course. How was Michael?”

“Oh, he slept like a baby.” Glass shattered and a scream erupted from Barry’s bedroom as if to prove Hartley wrong. “Until now. You should—” Barry was already gone, dashing to his bedroom. Barry was better with dealing with people anyway. His cheerful disposition made him quite affable. Hartley pulled a clean glass from the cabinet and poured blood three-quarters full to the top.

He headed over to Barry’s bedroom, carrying the glass in his hand. What should he say? Hopefully nothing. When it came to comfort, Hartley was useless, unlike Barry. Barry was warm and open; it was hard not to talk to him. The door was open when he arrived, allowing to see perfectly inside the bedroom.

Michael was sitting up on the bed, the blanket pooling at his waist. The boy’s eyes were a bright, clear scarlet, indicating his hunger and his fangs had extended out of his canines. Michael breathed heavily in a panicked pattern. Hartley noticed that the boy’s face was marred by the bruises, cuts and the _fear_ on his face. Barry’s bedside lamp was on the floor, the porcelain and bulb shattered. His terror and thirst for blood were so clear to see. Barry hovered close to the boy, but not so close that he would smother or set off the boy. He talked in a soothing murmur to Michael, whispering words of comfort.

 _“Whoareyou? WhereamI?”_ The boy was hyper-ventilating. It was understandable. He had been tortured physical and most likely mentally by the Bogeyman and was now waking up in an unfamiliar environment that was not home. _“Idon’t—”_ Michael froze and then the boy was turning his head to Hartley’s—more specifically, the glass of blood’s direction. The boy took in a deep breath, soaking up the sweet smell of blood and went nuts.

No, seriously, he did.

Michael’s face and body language turned wild and feral. He scrambled out of the covers and ran straight at Hartley with all the grace of a rhinoceros. Barry, with his lightning-fast reflexes, was on Michael instantly, grabbing the child and flinging him back to the bed in a non-lethal hold.

“Whoa! Okay, bloodthirsty half-vampire baby here, Harts!” Barry yelped. A grunt of pain escaped Michael’s lips that were mashed against the mattress. “I am really, really, _really_ sorry but if I loosened my hold on you, you’ll escape and go crazy for blood. _Ow!_ ” Barry hissed as the Dhampir kicked at him, however it was futile as it didn’t released from Barry’s hold.

“I don’t think the Dhampir isn’t conscious enough to properly hold a glass at the moment,” Hartley remarked. “I’m going to go get a baby bottle. Keep Michael there. I’ll return shortly.”

“Hartley!” Hartley was already in the kitchen, bending to one of the cabinets and pulling out a water bottle as well as a funnel. _“Hartley, this isn’t the time for jokes—Youch! Okay, whatever you’re doing, hurry it up!”_ Hartley unscrewed the lid off the bottle and placed the funnel on the mouth. He poured the contents of the transfusion bag and the glass downed through the funnel, deeper through the bottle. When he was finished, Hartley screwed the lid back on and briskly walked back to Barry’s bedroom.

“Having fun?” Hartley remarked as he re-entered the room.

“I hate you,” Barry spat.

“Love you too.”

“Hey, look! A sign that Hartley Rathaway has a heart!” Barry turned his head to see the bottle in Hartley’s hands. “You really weren’t kidding about the baby bottle.”

“Great observational skills, Barry,” Hartley said dryly, pulling the bottle cap. “Get Michael to face me.”

“Sure, just—” Barry used his super speed to lift Michael up from the mattress, hooking his arms underneath his armpits to hold him back. “Here.” Michael tried to struggle out of Barry’s arms. Thank vampire-enhanced strength and intense martial arts training he didn’t. The bloodthirsty piranha snapped his teeth hungrily at Hartley. Hartley thinned his lips. How to approach this … Oh yes!

Hartley pursed his lips together and started to whistle. He felt his own weak connection to the Speed Force stir within him. It happened every time. The Speed Force was an entity of pure energy and once he began to use it, it sizzled and cracked, slowly electrifying every cell of his body. ‘ _Concentrate’,_ he told himself, remembering the lessons of what the monks taught him in that ancient monastery so long ago in Japan. ‘ _Clear your thoughts. Feel the Speed Force inside you and be one with it.’_ The tune flowing smoothly of Hartley’s lips was a calming contrast to the tumultuous storm vibrating in his bones.

Michael’s monstrous hunger ebbed away, slipping into a glassy, hypnotic state. The boy’s tense body relaxed, so much that Barry had released him, keeping a wary eye on him just in case.

Hartley brought the bottle at a comfortable angle to the boy’s mouth. Michael began to suck on it like a newborn baby, eyes closed and throat working to swallow the blood. Hartley brought his whistling to a gradual hush, when Michael was able to drink without having Hartley using his compulsion to mollify him. Barry did not speak a word, not wanting to break Hartley’s spell.

Hartley’s connection to the Speed Force was feeble, only enhancing the sound aspects of his vampirism. It was nothing compared to Barry who was living lightning inside a cold shell of a corpse. Hartley could remember seeing Barry use his super-speed for the first time—a speed faster than any vampire and living mortal could hope to be—, running alongside Eobard, as they raced from the top of a Central City skyscraper all the way to Starling City. A whirlwind of emotions went through Hartley: shock, amazement—but one thing that stood out was _jealousy_ ; a hateful green-eyed monster that seethed in Hartley.

Hartley was the old doll that Eobard had grown tired of and Barry was the shiny, new toy he was fascinated with. And boy, wasn’t Eobard _fascinated_ with him. What with all the lingering touches, the secret kisses that took place when Hartley was not looking and when the two vampire speedsters disappeared at odd hours.

Hartley was horrible to Barry. The worst kind of person he could be to distance himself from Barry. And yet …

And yet … Barry didn’t hate him. No, when Hartley was in that hellhole, thinking he would suffer until his tormentors had enough of him, Barry came for him and dragged Hartley out of the darkness into the light.

Barry had his attention on the Dhampir, hand hovering close over his shoulder. He had a concerned, careful scowl on his face, eyes shining with that annoyingly familiar care and concern he would occasionally look at his brother with.

 _‘You’re the worst vampire in the world.”_ Hartley thought, and was surprised with the amount of exasperated affection that went into it.

 Michael had finished the bottle, separating his lips from the lid with a rivulet of that sweet, intoxicating liquid leaking from the side of his mouth. He fell backwards, and Barry caught him, wrapping his arms around the boy.

“You alright there, Michael?” Barry asked, his voice a whisper.

“I— _hmm_ —feel be’er,” the boy hummed back, dazed from the blood. “Think ‘m gonna’ go back to …” Michael’s eyes fluttered closed before he could finish his sentence and his mind descended to sleep.  

“Okay,” Barry said, wiping off the bead of blood at Michael’s chin. “I can’t be the only one that thinks this is cute.”

“What? A small little child going feral at the sight of blood? Oh yes, very cute.” Barry glared at Hartley. “Okay, I’ll admit the state the boy is in now is _slightly_ adorable.” Slightly adorable? Oh please, Michael looked like an angel. Not that Hartley would ever admit it. It was good enough for Barry who broke out in a wide grin.

“Knew you had a soft spot for kids.”

“What are you talking about? Kids don’t like me. Whenever they come into contact with me, they just stare at me as if they want something from me. Probably me being burnt at stake or something else of the kind.”

Barry rolled his eyes and threw back: “It’s just not kids that want that. It’s also the adults.” He picked up Michael and brought him back under the soft covers of his bed. “And stop thinking the worst of yourself. You have good qualities too.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Barry stilled, gaping at Hartley. “What?”

Hartley smirked, full of malice, so similar to the old days when he wanted nothing more than Barry to be gone. It was funny how he wanted Barry to be by his side forever now. “I’ve known you for over ninety years, Barry.” Barry continued to stare, not uncomprehending was Hartley was saying. Of course he didn’t. Barry had a dark side and he did not like to look at it. In fact, he _hated_ himself for it. And, frustratingly, Hartley didn’t know what to do about it because he was in the same boat. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

Barry sighed, moving away from Michael and out of the room. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Hart, and don’t care.”

Barry was back in the kitchen, bending down to rummage through the fridge until he found the blood transfusion bags at the back. From his rigid body language, Barry was thinking about the past. His past. The crimes he committed with Eobard, the blood he had spilled when he was with the League of Assassins and after, every bad deed afterwards. For all Barry was good, he was equally bad. A pang of guilt went through Hartley for causing this mood.

“I’m going to bed. The sun’s going to make me feel nauseous,” Hartley announced. Fatigue was setting in now, causing his eyes to droop and yawn. “What are you going to do?”

Barry shrugged. “Stay up a bit longer if Michael needs me. Do a little research. Drink blood. Eat junk food. Nap on the couch.” Why wouldn’t he strain himself further for somebody he cared about, even though he had met Michael a few hours ago. Self-sacrificing moron. Although, he did have a valid point about doing ‘research’.

“Maybe I could help you—”

“Sleep,” Barry cut him off. “You looked wiped. Like zombie wiped. I can take it from here.”

Hartley opened his mouth but closed it when he thought the better of it. If Barry wanted to slowly turn himself into one of the zombie extras in the ‘ _Walking Dead’,_ that was his problem. Hartley grunted out a curt ‘goodnight’ before stalking to his own bedroom and fell unceremoniously on the bed, not even bothering to throw the blankets over him. It does not take long for him for his mind and body to fall to the black oblivion of slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as good as the last chapter, I know, but I promise there is going to be more Michael Snart in the next chapter. Len's probably going to appear next chapter. Also, if there are any grammatical errors, be sure to let me know in the comments. Click kudos if you like this chapter.


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